Tuesday, October 31, 2017

The Tall Emaciated Chairman of Sleeplessness

  • Robert Pollard is SIXTY! today. Sixty.
  • Pollard projects, solo, other bands, but primarily Guided by Voices once held the third chair in My Sillyass Deserted Island 5 Game, then got ejected for Lampchop before Lampchop was ejected too into the innermost circle of musicians who fill at any one time depending on my mood the three rotating seats.
  • One of the two permanent members plays DC a week from this Thursday, yo.
  • If I had to fill the five - I'm off to StoVoKor, grab your records - Pollard/GbV would get one.
  • I don't have to.
  • However! after 24 hours of Pollard songs, they are 3rd chair again! and will never leave.
  • A world of sheep.
  • A dream of sheep.
  • The immediately above has the other permanent seat.

  • That's this year.
  • He has one song and each new version is as great and different as the last.
  • The bottom song is this blog's Theme Song 3.
  • I tweeted two Pollard songs into the gale of Mump Trueller last evening.
  • Blooging into the gale of Mump Trueller is just as fumb and dutile.
  • I understand the DNC's tactic of getting the fuck out of the way of the trainwreck and let him crash with as little suggestion he was pushed as possible, my friend M said over pints after work.
  • Mump Trueller on all the big screen of Tombs.
  • I said, the DNC is using the cover of Trump trainwreck to purge its Left.
  • Not a bad plan for assholes, said M, not that it matters.
  • I said, N (a mutual acquaintance, stats savant, totally Data with political data) said data suggests knowing all is for shit folks double-down on tribal legacies and funeral rites for sham martyrs.
  • Fuck my tribe, said M.
  • You too, I asked.
  • M asked, if you were to write about this conversation would you bullet it like you bullet your poetry now, not just links, instead of using the deliberately long and syntactically dense paragraphs you once wrote Thursday Night Pints in?
  • It's my gimmick now, I said.


Franz Wright

Morning arrives
by limousine: the tall   
emaciated chairman

of sleeplessness in person
steps out on the sidewalk
and donning black glasses, ascends   
the stairs to your building

guided by a German shepherd.   
After a couple faint knocks   
at the door, he slowly opens   
the book of blank pages

pointing out
with a pale manicured finger   
particular clauses,
proof of your guilt.